Reflect, Reverse
by porcelaindakota
Summary: It does not occur to him that this is another way they mirror one another; he simply hates only being able to wait and watch.  Royai


The bitter catch of tobacco, the sweet boozy whiffs of freely-poured alcohol, the undertones of human sweat: these are the comforting scents that play around him as Roy sits on his usual barstool, waiting for his fur-bedecked foster mother to appear. In the meantime, he nurses his own scotch, studying the ring his glass leaves on the dark-polished countertop, feeling himself fall perfectly again into the role he has perfectly crafted for himself here. A few of his sisters catch his eye from across the room; he gives them a wink and a smirk, and hears a couple of off-duty workers behind him grumble.

It takes a few minutes, but eventually Madame Christmas appears, hands on hips and a surly expression on her face that, at least to the rest of the bar's patrons, does not lighten a fraction when she sees Roy. He knows by now that Madame's lack of open affection carries no malignant meaning—it is with her, after all, that he first learned the language of gestures and glances not meant to be seen, how sheltered and secret action can carry all the meaning of a sleeve-worn heart.

"Got a problem," she says without preamble, snatching up a napkin to wipe away the imprint his scotch has left on her counter. "We weren't able to get our shipment of your usual. I'm afraid you're going to have to go to another such fine establishment to get your favorites."

Roy cocks a single eyebrow, the only indication he gives of any frustration. So much for cracking that counterfeiting ring tonight. "Well, Madame, do you have any recommendation? I would hate to have to run all over Central until I find my drink."

Christmas's eyes narrow just a little bit, and she gives an exasperated huff: _of course I can tell you where to go, you idiot, don't insult me. _Something along those lines.

"I'll get you the address," she replies. "I sent another customer there a little while ago, he wanted the same drink. He may not take warmly to _you_, though," she continues, something in the changed tenor of her voice warning him.

Roy frowns.

* * *

><p>The problem is simple: Roy's sources are usually young, attractive females, with whom he can pretend to flirt shamelessly while they covertly pass him messages from Madame or one of her contacts.<p>

In this case, though, it is a male source, one who apparently likes playing the game Roy plays as well and feels like he will be best repaid for his services by getting a pretty girl to chat up for the evening. As much as Roy appreciate miniskirts, he is not particularly inclined to wear one, and he feels even more strongly that his contact would be particularly upset if he did.

So, he is sitting in his office the morning after this roadbump is introduced, staring fuzzily at his fountain pen, wondering how best to work around this.

"Good morning, Colonel."

He looks up; Hawkeye stands before him, arms laden with files, but somehow there is a hot coffee on his desk where there wasn't one a second earlier. He sets the pen down, picks up the steaming cup and gives her a look that he hopes says _good morning I'm very happy to see you but in an entirely professional sort of way. _

Hawkeye doesn't smile, but her face seems to…smooth itself. Or at least, there is a moment where Roy knows she isn't concentrating on keeping her lips in a tight line and her eyes locked away.

And then Roy Mustang realizes that he really only has one option here.

And he is really annoyed by it.

* * *

><p>This new bar is on the other end of Central from Madame Christmas's, in Little Aerugo. Where her place is warm with its refined dark woods, familiar faces and well-worn barstool in front of the scotch, this bar is an unknown. Roy surreptitiously glances over the customers from his corner booth and plans hypothetical escape routes that would inflict minimum casualties.<p>

"Geez, Chief, you can stop acting like everyone in the bar ganged together to shove a pole up your ass." Havoc lounges across from him, nonchalantly reaching for the table's tiny ash tray.

"I'm not—" Roy begins quietly, feeling his pulse beat an angry rhythm somewhere in his forehead.

"Yeah you are." Breda cuts him off from Havoc's left, somehow speaking distinctly through the large quantity of chicken in his mouth. Fuery, at Roy's right, squirms but says nothing. "Hawkeye can handle this, no problem."

In fact, she seems to be _handling it, no problem, _but, as Roy reminds himself, how much can he tell, from across the room? She is seated at the bar, holding, but not drinking, a scotch. A slightly-older-looking man—or at least Roy _thinks _he looks a little bit older _from across the room—_is seated next to her, leaning into her, and Hawkeye's hand is resting prettily on his arm.

Her hair is down; she _pretends _to laugh at something the man says and flicks it over her shoulder in the same way the girls do at Madame Christmas's when they're chatting up customers, and Roy cannot help but take a somewhat angry swig and glare at Havoc, who is grinning too damn smugly to portend anything good.

The man Roy Mustang once thought a faithful subordinate puts out his cigarette in the ash tray. "I know I'm no strategist"—here, a deferential gesture to Breda—"but let's reason this out for a moment. We have Falman outside, with orders to keep the car running, 'just in case.' We have all four of us in here, packing, for a simple meet-up that you, Chief, normally would do alone." Havoc lounges back and lazily spreads his arms on the top of their padded booth seat. "There's only one solution: you don't like the fact that Hawkeye had to switch places with you, and that she's over there flirting her brains out for intel."

More glaring. More picturing Havoc's face crispy-fried. More not being able to help glancing at his Lieutenant's now-bared legs, dangling so vulnerably from the barstool. And _crap almighty, _now the source is touching her too, playing with her hair.

"Gotcha," Breda says, drawing Roy back to his table. "Not that Hawkeye probably likes playing a female version of you, but she's doing what she needs to for the mission."

Roy grumbles, and realizes in his stew of self-pity and source-hating and Lieutenant-wanting that if Hawkeye has turned into him, the shameless flirt at the bar, that he has turned into the jealous guys who mutter and curse a few tables away.

_Dammit._ Havoc catches him looking again. Roy plays with his ignition gloves in his pocket and Fuery tries to stealthily shift away from him. Breda orders another round for the table and another basket of chicken wings for himself.

And Roy can't see this part, of course: Hawkeye bats her eyelashes and the man on the adjacent barstool grabs a napkin to jot down his "phone number."

* * *

><p>The Falman-prepped getaway car proves unnecessary (the Warrant Officer, however, informs the Colonel very politely that he will be reimbursed for the gas needed to keep it running) and the second phase of the operation commences: circuitously meeting up back in their office at Central Command.<p>

Roy is the first one to return; the others have gone home before coming back, in an attempt to make this whole thing look like a squad out for a drink together, nothing more than a group of soldiers out for some weekend relaxation, certainly not gathering information from a foreign agent, no sir.

He is still irritated, and, for no reason other than to use some of this restless energy, he sets the coffeepot to brewing, busies himself laying out the files his team will need to go over and decides to find out where on earth the Styrofoam cups are hidden.

He has retrieved the cups from the rickety little cabinet by the window when the door creaks open; he hears a light, even step, and turns to see Hawkeye, still in her skirt and blouse, hair still down.

"Good evening, Colonel," she says—very calm, so still in this moment, no indication of her evening clandestinely gathering intelligence or of the fully-loaded pistol in her purse—and crosses to her desk. An alchemist, studying a reaction he hasn't quite figured out yet: Roy notices that her hair sort of floats up and settles on her shoulders when she sits. He remembers a fragment of a line from one of the dusty books in her father's library: _a study in contrasts. _

So many different roles this woman plays, he thinks to himself. She has so many times now reinvented herself for him, and he remembers Riza the girl, a secret unfolding; a killer's eyes and a promise both to follow and to kill; and now this, some other layer he doesn't quite understand. And for every time she has recast her own mold, changed the role she plays, he has forced himself to evolve as well. _Oh. _

The coffee is hot, steam rising as he pours her a cup and sets it on her desk. He stands before her for this beat in time; in the tired yellow lamplight he sees the look she gives him, feels the silence laced with Hawkeye's calm, still relief that she is here with him and not back there, a feeling of _this is nice, just me and you and coffee and quiet. _

For his part, Roy feels the unclenching of his jaw, the relaxing of his furrowed brow. Something seems to uncoil a little bit, and he knows—knows in the way he learned was most important from Madame in his childhood, all those years before—that Hawkeye feels the change too, she, maybe even more than he, recognizes the feeling of shift.

The room smells of coffee and paper. Roy scoops the files up from his desk and brings them over to hers, and they begin their work.

* * *

><p>So, this is my first stand-alone FMA fic (I have another short series of oneshots I'll hopefully be working on). Any reviews and concrit is very appreciated. :) I've been stalking Royai fic for a while now, so it's exciting to finally contribute! This was written for the FMA Fic Contest community on LJ (under the screenname porcelaindakota).<p>

Thanks!


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